


caduto dalle nuvole

by beckzorz (heckofabecca)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Avenger Reader (Marvel), Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22052911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heckofabecca/pseuds/beckzorz
Summary: A detour on a mission leads to destruction, and a discovery.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	caduto dalle nuvole

**Author's Note:**

> "Caduto dalle nuvole” is an Italian idiom that means literally “fallen from the clouds” and figuratively “taken aback.”
> 
> This story was written on request for a secret santa. The kidnapped-in-a-barn part is based on a story of my mother's Italian hitchhiking days :)
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Any questions?”

You close the mission briefing and tuck the file under your arm as you stand, just barely controlling the tic in your jaw. “None, Captain.”

“Good.” His relief is palpable. “The jet leaves in ninety minutes. Good luck, agent.”

* * *

“I’ll be back,” Antonio says, and then he slams the barn door shut.

You gape. A key scrapes against a lock. Your heart stops for a horrible moment, and then you bolt forward.

“Hey!”

You slam into the door, body and door shaking from the impact. A chain rattles on the other side, and a car engine starts to purr.

“Hey!” you scream.

The car drives off, grinding against the gravel drive. You bang your fists against the door, rage clouding your vision, filling your veins.

Behind you, your partner lets out a breath and a thump. You turn, blinking away the red in your vision, and stare.

Bucky Barnes is sitting on a pile of hay, hands clasped between his spread thighs and his expression sardonic.

“Well,” he says. “That went well.”

You whirl back to the door, teeth clenched. You can’t manage a reply, not when it was _ his _ idea to hitchhike instead of taking the bus. Your own mother had hitchhiked across Europe in the seventies, but it’s not the seventies anymore. It’s decades later, and now… now you’ve been kidnapped. _ Kidnapped! _

“We’re literally locked in a _ barn_,” you snap. “And you just want to sit there?!”

Bucky sighs. “Look, this guy clearly has something up his sleeve. I did some research in the back seat while you were being sociable. SHIELD’s made a note of this guy before. Our mission isn’t so urgent that we can’t delay a day to figure out what his deal is.”

You lean your shoulder against the door and gape at him. “What, you think Steve will just say, ‘Sure, Buck, that’s totally fine! It’s not like I specifically tasked you to find these dangerous terrorists or anything?’”

“Uh, that’s what he said, yeah.” Bucky shifts on the haypile and holds up his phone. “I texted him to check.”

“Typical,” you mutter. You turn back to the door, the start of a headache pricking at your temples. You crouch down and peer through the crack of the barn door, looking for the chain.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks. His voice seems small in the open barn.

You don’t answer. What’s the point? Surely it’s obvious. Why else would you be studying the way out except to break out? To enjoy the view?

Besides, it’s not like _ he _ ever tells _ you _ anything. If you hadn’t asked, would he have even mentioned he’d spoken with Steve?

He’s never told you anything he hasn’t needed to.

You stare at the chain through the gap in the door. It’s afternoon outside—if you rattle the door, you can see the sun glinting off the shifting links. Something to look at while you consider why your frustration is tinged with dejection.

When you’d first joined—when you were _ recruited_, you’d had so much hope in Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier, stolen and used and come back to himself? It was your own story, if decades out of sync. Sam Wilson, bless him, even encouraged you to strike up a friendship with him. Sam, the only one who knew your whole story. Steve probably does by now too, but still. Sam was the first to know. He was the one who got out you. Got you _ free_.

Of course, all the attempts you made to befriend Bucky fell flat. He was—and still is—polite, but unfathomably distant. Anyway, why would he bother opening up to_ you? _ He has Sam, Steve… Even Natasha, the only other person you might have felt comfortable talking to. _ He doesn’t like talking about his past, _ Steve once said. _ Try Natasha. _ But if you talked to her, she’d tell him everything.

And you don’t want to be talked about.

Not like that. Not by them.

You force yourself to your feet and step back. The hinges on the door are bolted in place—no easy removal there. Maybe a tool kit…?

The barn is dim, hazy. The sunlight streaming in from the small windows slants down in clouded beams, turning the hay-littered dirt floor into a mosaic of light and dark. And Bucky is all in shadow on his yellow throne. He’s barely moved since you last looked his way. Just sitting, and watching you. 

“Did you see a toolbox anywhere?” you ask.

Bucky turns his head left, then right. “Nope.” He props his elbow on his knee and rests his chin in the palm of his hand. “Whatcha thinking?”

You prowl the perimeter, looking in every built-in shelf and drawer. “Unbolt the door hinges. Neither of us’d fit through the windows, and—wait a second.” You whirl to face him, quivering with relief. “Forget that. You can just force the door open!”

“Are you kidding?” Bucky asks. He holds up his left hand—it looks like a regular hand for the mission, but under the smokescreen is that same vibranium, that same strength. “Do you really wanna advertise that the Winter Soldier is in Italy? Right now? While we’re on an undercover mission?”

“Um, regular people break through doors _ all the time_, Barnes.” You dash over and try to pull him to his feet.

He doesn’t budge.

“Seriously?!” You drop his heavy arm, muscles tight and hands quivering. “Are you just going to sit there? And do _ nothing?_”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, I am. And as mission lead, that’s the call I’ve made. So sit down and chill, firecracker.”

Your fists curl into balls and you stalk away.

_ Firecracker_.

A nickname, one you’ve despised since the first time Natasha sang it out over the comms on a mission last month. Firecracker, of all things! Like you’re no more than a party trick. An _ object_. Not even an animal. Not even something _ powerful. _ Firecrackers are all about a lot of noise, not power. And you…

You slow as you reach the door. The wood is rough as you slide your palms across it and press your forehead across the gap. Outside, it’s still bright. Still afternoon. Inside, it feels like a nightmare.

You haven’t been locked in anywhere on a mission since… since… 

For a long time.

You don’t like it. You close your eyes, breathe in—the air in the barn is stale, but if you squish your nose enough, you can get a hint of freshness from outside. The door scrapes your cheeks as you settle yourself.

It’s okay. You’ll be okay. You’ll be—

A hand on your shoulder: you spin, catch their wrist, and stop short when you realize it’s only Bucky.

“You okay?” he asks. Is that pity in his voice?

“Of course I’m fine!”

His skin is hot to the touch; he and Steve have always run warm, but it’s a strange feeling to be touching him like this. It’s not part of training, not part of a fight…

You drop his hand and sidle out from between him and the door. Your hands are still trembling. You straighten them out until your bones ache, fingers flexed and muscles straining. Even your jaw is trembling.

“You’re not,” Bucky says flatly. “What do you need?”

A hollow laugh escapes you. You lean against a pillow and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor. “To not be in _ here! _ What the hell do you think? That I’m thrilled to be locked in somewhere I’m more liable to disintegrate than not?”

“What do you…”

Bucky trails off. You don’t bother looking up at him. God knows what he thinks of you.

But it’s one thing to be in hiding. It’s another thing to be locked up. God, how can he _ bear _ it? After everything, how can he—how can you—how could you _ ever_—

“Hey.”

Your head jerks up, your eyes wide. Bucky is kneeling a few feet away, his hands clasped between his knees. They both look like human hands; a smokescreen disguises his left. It’s a good disguise, but it looks wrong on him all the same. He—it’s not him, it’s not…

“Look at me, firecracker,” Bucky murmurs. Your eyes snap to his; your eyebrows draw low.

“Don’t call me that,” you hiss. “I’m not some toy.”

He blinks. “It’s a nickname. A term of _ endearment_, not ridicule. Hell, Sam calls me Tin Man. Does that make me brainless?”

“Sam’s your _ friend!_”

Bucky’s mouth drops open and his blue eyes round as saucers. “Wha—”

He stops mid-word. He cocks his head to the side. You open your mouth, but he holds up a hand, silencing whatever you’d been about to say.

His sudden silence, the way he’s listening—is someone coming?

You give Bucky a look, and he nods. You both let out a breath and stand silently. Whatever you’d been talking about, it has to wait. Right now, you’re done arguing.

Right now, you’re a team.

Tires screech outside; you look to Bucky for confirmation. He holds up three fingers.

Three vehicles.

How many people in them?

And why, _ why _ are they here? Did they recognize Bucky? He’s not immediately recognizable out of uniform, at least to the untrained eye—but are these trained eyes? Was Bucky’s face the only reason you got picked up on the side of the road? This kind of mishap has happened before… 

Car doors open, footsteps crunch in gravel, and you flex your fingers and reach for that spot of warmth hidden in your chest. It reaches out, settles around your bones, through your veins until your fingernails glow. Bucky glances down, his lips quirk up, and then his eyes settle on yours. His pupils are wide with adrenaline, and he’s looking at you so intently your breath catches in your throat. Your fingertips are white-hot now, casting an eerie light from below.

He looks all the more terrible and wonderful for it.

“Ready?” he murmurs.

Your focus rams back into place. It’s just your mission lead, just Bucky. And there’s bigger fish to fry right now than the dark sky in his eyes.

“Ready.”

Bucky tilts his head towards the fused hinges on one side of the door. You press your hands against the top one, and the rusty metal begins to glow. Red drops of molten iron slide down catch on the wood, which begins to smoke. Licks of fire sprout from the jamb, and you hop back, shaking out the sparks from your fingertips.

Bucky maneuvers ahead of you and kicks the door open, wood splintering at the bottom, his left arm up. Twin shouts of surprise, two quick gunshots, and the door shudders from the impact.

“Get the other one!” Bucky snaps, pulling the bust-open door back into place as shouting begins in earnest.

You dash to the other door. Bullets pepper the door, but the wood is thick enough to contain them—for now. Something niggles at the back of your mind, but you push it away. Of course something’s wrong. But now’s the time to act, not think.

The second hinge disintegrates faster; the longer you go, the hotter you get. This is the longest you’ve ever lasted like this on a mission—usually you have guns, tools, equipment… Today you have only yourself.

Sparks fly, settling on your pants, little spots starting to burn away. The glow in your fingertips spreads down to your second knuckle, third knuckle…

Bucky pushes the two doors forward together, driving them forward like a shield wall against the god-knows-how-many people approaching. You stick close, scooping up a handful of gravel and shaping it in your palms. Gunshots ring out, striking the padlocked chain, the doors, the dirt at your feet.

“Get that damn thing on!” someone shouts.

A colossal hum groans into life, flooding your ears as you lose all sense of feeling. Bucky cries out, digs in his heels as he left arm shoots forward, but you’re a million miles away as the doors fall away from you and clatter to the ground. Dust clouds in the air as you realize that the molten rocks in your hands have dripped through your fingers, burning your shoes away. You step back, hands shaking, suddenly cold as the warmth in your chest fizzles out.

Then you run.

Gravel bites into your bare feet and makes way for tough grass. But there’s rocks here too, hidden ones, and within seconds you stumble, a sharp rock tearing a gash in the pad of your foot. Still you run, eyes burning more than your hands had been, ice settling fresh in your veins as footsteps pound behind you, harsh breathing that isn’t yours whistling in your ears.

A grunt, and someone’s hand brushes your arm. You gasp, air slicing against your screaming lungs, and pump your legs harder, harder—

“Augh!”

A hand catches your elbow, yanking your shoulder, yanking your whole body to the side as you keep going, heartbeat frantic, brain screaming, eyes barely seeing except to realize that this is the first you’ve seen again, and it’s just like you remembered, oh god, oh god; you pull your arm against the tight grip, but there’s no breaking free, the grip is too strong. You manage to get a few steps farther, dragging your assailant with you, but he digs in his heels.

Like Bucky dug in his heels.

Your eyes swivel in your head back to the barn, back to where Bucky is still fighting against some machine aimed at him, making waves in the air as it pulls at his left arm. Even from a distance, you can see he’s confused despite his bared teeth and furor. He glances your way, and the fresh strangeness in his expression takes you off-guard.

The other one who’d been chasing you grabs you, catching your other hand.

“Gotcha,” he grunts, breathless and gleeful.

You can’t take your eyes from Bucky. He’s looking at you more now. The tears pricking at your eyes make it impossible to read what he’s thinking, but you know.

The first one knees you in the gut; you fall to your knees, eyes watering afresh and nausea tickling the back of your mouth.

You know what Bucky is thinking. _ You’re just a firecracker. You’re useless. You’re a party trick— _

You surge back to your feet, hand curling into a fist as you drive your knuckles into the first one’s neck. They choke, eyes blown wide and hand instinctively dropping from your elbow to clutch their throat. You swing your other arm, ready to drive it into their gut, but the second one catches your wrist, twisting your arm up behind you. You scream in pain—your pulled shoulder is useless now—and make to get out of their hold, but you’re caught, and someone else has come along now, and they kick you facedown into the grass. Still you persist, wriggling and kicking and trying to force yourself to your feet, to your knees, onto your back—to anything other than in the grass, blades prickling against your cheeks and mouth and nose.

God knows how, but you manage to twist over and drive your foot into someone’s crotch. They squeal and hobble back, and you grit your teeth through the pain and push yourself up before someone drives a foot into your stomach again, slamming you back onto the ground.

“Stay _ down!_”

It’s the second man, the one who’d pulled your shoulder. He steps heavy on your chest until your bones creak, and you scream from the pressure, the pain.

“Stop, you idiot!”

You freeze. Your scream dies in your throat. The man lifts his foot away, and even through your tears you can see his scowl.

That voice—

No. No.

_ No. _

You curl your fingers into the grass. It’s alive in your hands. Something alive, that thinks no ill of you, that wants nothing from you, something green and alive and you are _ not _ going to let them take you again.

With a cry, you push yourself up and launch yourself at the man who’d held you down. Your punch to his jaw sends him reeling. There’s nothing left of the warmth from in the barn in your chest, but you reach for it anyway, desperate, as you dash towards the man whose voice you never want to hear again.

He’s holding a gun, pointed loosely at you, his suit clean as ever and his hair as short. His eyebrows are raised, as if he’s surprised, but you don’t care, you don’t care, all you want is to break is neck and never let him speak another word as long as he—

_ Crack_.

White-hot pain lances through your hip as he shoots, but you keep going until you’re on top of him and he’s in the dirt and your hands are around his neck and you’re squeezing and then your hands are on empty air as that _ idiot _ pulls you off.

You stumble a few feet away. There’s no warmth for you to pull at, but sparks shoot intermittently from your fingers as you snarl, blood pulsing at your hip. The idiot has a cattle prod in his hands, and he’s thrusting it at you, the buzz sending shocks through you long before it touches you.

The boss, on his knees, lurches forward towards the two of you, his eyes comically wide.

“Don’t—”

The cattle prod hits you.

White.

All you can see is white.

White fire burns in your veins, under your skin, burning searing screaming—

* * *

White fire flares out from where you’re caught between a bunch of the goons. Something explodes. For a moment, the whole area is flooded with white, turning the world into static. Bucky’s heart stutters—he can’t see you, where are you, what have they done to you?

A wave of heat hits him with such intensity that he shouts, his arms automatically flinging up as protection. The world goes white; something clatters nearby.

Arms? _ Arms? _

Yes, _ both _ arms. What happened to the electromagnet? Was it the heat?

Whatever it was, he’s free. He lurches towards where the electromagnet had been, teeth gritted against the pain of the heat in the air. He can hear frightened breathing, swearing—_fuck fuck fuck fuck fu—_and he pounces, landing awkwardly on someone’s shoulder, but not so awkwardly that he doesn’t knock them unconscious before they can land a single blow. He stumbles off of them, ears cocked for any other noises, any other sounds, but all he hears are footsteps running haphazardly away.

They’ll get found, eventually. Right now, he can’t leave. Not without knowing what’s happened to you.

Bucky’s vision clears slowly. It’s still uncomfortably hot—sweat beads on his forehead, on his neck—but there’s a slow breeze. There’s a column of smoke to his right, where you’d run off to, and he slowly moves in that direction as he blinks away the whiteness from his eyes.

Every step forward, the heat intensifies. There’s no more grass, just dirt, with black smoke spiraling up from the bare ground. Sweat drips down the hollow of his back, catches in his eyebrows—he shakes his head, teeth bared, and forces himself forward.

What the hell happened?

Had they come for him, or you? Why _ would _ they have come for you? Whatever he thinks of you personally, your powers have never seemed that extraordinary to him. Your work at the barn, turning wrought-iron hinges into molten metal in seconds—that’s the most impressive thing he’s seen out of you to date.

Whatever had happened, the white fire and the horrible heat and the whole world gone white—that can’t have been you. But you can’t be burned, can you? Whatever it was, it can’t have hurt you.

Could it have?

He breaks into a run, squinting. A shadow on the ground catches his eye.

Bucky freezes in his tracks.

A corpse, burnt nearly to the bone. Red-hot metal pools under its pelvis—a belt buckle? A gun? No, that’s the gun there, with the extra charring on the ground. Is that what had exploded earlier? Must be.

Bucky’s mind fast-tracks past the corpse. If this is what had happened to someone else…

He steps over a charred, skeletal foot, his heart in his throat as he squints against the hot smoky air.

If that’s what happened to someone else, how _ could _ you have survived?

Bucky’s eyes water more than ever as he walks faster. “No no no,” he mutters. “That’s not…”

Another charred corpse, this one truly burnt to the bone, tendons just barely holding it together. Tears track down Bucky’s cheeks as his eyes run from the long foot up the leg, over the hipbones—

A bare foot is caught in the ribcage. A skull cradled against a bare hip, scraps of charring fabric caught in the sockets. One hand, full and alive and covered in soot, flung across your belly.

Bucky falls to his knees and crawls forward until a tear falls onto your sooty skin. Your face is turned away from him. His hands quiver as he reaches for you—for the first time, he realizes the smokescreen has died—and touches your shoulder, the back of your hand. You’re still, too still, and your skin is cold to the touch. He can hear your heartbeat, but it’s faint as a whisper and slower than molasses. There’s no sound of breathing.

“Breathe, dammit,” he mouths.

He nudges you, presses down on the hand over your belly, trying to force some movement in your lungs.

Nothing.

He takes your face in his hands; they’re shaking more than ever. He turns your head towards him, crying outright now.

“Please,” he breathes. He shifts his knees until he can bend his face inches from yours. If he has to get you to breathe by giving you breath himself, by god he’ll do it, he’ll do it a hundred times, a million, because you _ can’t _ be dead here on the ground, you can’t be, he won’t _ let _ you.

Bucky sucks in a breath, the smoky air stinging his lungs, but before he can pinch your nose shut, you shift, groan, and turn your head just enough so he can see your lips parting and a tear tracking down your cheek.

Relief washes over him like a tidal wave. For a moment, all he can do is close his eyes and press his forehead to yours. Your skin is still cold, but you’re not dead. You’re not dead. You’re alive. You’re alive, and you’re going to be okay. He’ll make damn sure of it.

One last shaky breath, and Bucky sits up on his heels. He shucks off his coat, tucks it around you, and hoists you into his arms. The skull rolls to the ground. He has to work the ribcage away from your foot with his own hand, but then he’s taking you away, back to the burning barn, away from… He glances back. It looks like a bomb has gone off. It looks…

It looks…

It looks like something he’s seen before.

Bucky’s steps slow as he stares down at the top of your head.

He’s seen this before.

The white blast. The scorched earth. The charred corpses.

He’s seen it in South Africa, in China, in Ukraine, in Venezuela. Terrorism attacks, with tenuous links aside from the identical carnage.

Monthly attacks that ended… the same month you joined the team.

It’s only habit that keeps him walking now. Force of habit, and how cold your skin is, and something past thought that has his throat clogged with horror. But he can’t drop you, no matter what conclusions his brain is coming to now.

The air is clearer here. The barn is on fire now, whether from your handiwork earlier or… or just now, he couldn’t say. But the breeze is blowing the smoke away. One of the three cars is missing—some of them must have fled, but someone will find them. Someone.

There’s an SUV with open doors. Bucky settles you in the passenger seat, careful to tuck his jacket around you properly as your head lolls. When you come to, there will be enough to explain.

There has to be an explanation.

There has to be.

Bucky pulls out his phone. Sam’s on speed-dial.

Sam’s voice, when he answers, is answer enough.

* * *

It’s cold.

The air is warm, but you’re cold, so cold. Like your heart is ice. You squeeze your closed eyes shut further and reach for that spot of warmth in your chest.

It’s not there.

You whimper, try again.

Nothing.

You’ve wrung yourself dry.

How—

Your faces twitches as you try to remember. All you remember is white, the static of whiteness.

Whiteness…

Your eyes pop open as you suck in a harsh, smoky breath, every muscle taut and shaking as you stare at the burning barn through—through a windshield? You’re in a car? Your heart pounds out of your chest. Did they put you in a car to take you away?

The door to your right is open; you lurch out of your seat and land on your bare knees in the gravel, one hand clutching the open door for support. You stagger to your feet. There’s no warmth in your chest and no strength in your bones, but you force yourself away, away, away—

A hand touches you, and you scream, flailing blindly until your wrist is caught.

“Hey hey hey, careful,” a soft voice says. Another hand settles on your waist, the hand on your wrist shifts until it’s holding yours, and it’s then that your eyes refocus on—

Bucky.

His eyes are wide, fixed on your face. You blink. His face is sooty, but there are clear tracks running down his cheeks. Was he—was he crying?

“You okay?” he asks.

His voice is still soft, still gentle. His eyes are still fixed on your face.

Whiteness…

“I—I don’t know,” you stammer. You put your free hand on Bucky’s arm, head swimming. The gravel bites into your feet, and you wince.

Your shoes must have burned away. Your shoes, and—

A strangled breath escapes your throat as you realize. Your shoes burned away, your shoes _ and _ your clothes. You’re wearing Bucky’s jacket, but it falls only just past your hips.

God, what did he see? You stare at him again, only more confused than before. What _ happened? _

_ Whiteness. _

You clap a hand over your mouth, eyes wide.

You remember it all now, as starkly as if it was happening all over again. The run, the struggle, the gunshot, the cattle prod.

The whiteness.

“Did I—did—what—”

“It’s okay,” Bucky whispers. He gently wraps an arm around you and tucks you against his chest. “You’re okay. Sam is coming.”

Your hands wind into Bucky’s shirt, tugging it tight. You stare down at your bare feet as tears roll down your cheeks. Your left foot stings; are you bleeding? You shift your foot; yes, there’s blood on the gravel where you’d been standing. Your hip is less painful than you’d’ve expected, and you flex a muscle there experimentally. Something pulls at your skin—had Bucky patched you up? He must have.

Bucky.

What does he know?

“What…” You swallow. “What happened?”

“They set you off,” Bucky says.

You let out a slow breath. So he knows. You disentangle yourself from his hold and limp to the car; Bucky helps you along, and back up into the passenger seat. “Oh.” You turn away and look at the bottom of your foot, wincing. Yes, still bleeding.

“‘_Oh?_’” Bucky repeats incredulously.

You turn back to him, eyebrows raised. Bucky’s hands are wide open at his sides, as though he’s struggling to keep them from curling into fists.

“Why did no one tell me about this?” His voice is low, tinged with frustration. “Why didn’t I know?”

“Only Sam knows. Knew,” you correct. “He’s the one—”

“Who got you out,” Bucky finishes. He leans against the car, boxing you in. “But why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why would I have told you?” you ask, voice flat.

Bucky stares, mouth open, argument flashing in his eyes. You lean your head back and close your eyes. You’re still groggy and cold and tired, and there’s no way out with Bucky standing so close. All you can do is answer him.

“Forget why, _ when?_” you continue weakly. “We’ve never been particularly friendly.”

“I can’t help being shy, can I?” Bucky snaps.

“Yes you can.” Your chin drops a little; your eyes are still closed. “I did my best, to try and make friends with you. I thought… it’d be good for me. Have someone who knows what I went through.”

“I didn’t know,” he says. He’s not snapping now. He’s quiet, almost plaintive. “I wish I had. I wish Sam had told me. I wish…” He trails off, sighs.

You peek open an eye. Bucky leans on his arm against the open car door jamb, eyes closed, face downcast. He looks… he looks like he’s more weighted down than you are.

A little warmth flares in your chest. You can’t tell if it’s real or just a hope.

You reach out and put a hand on his face. His skin is warm to the touch, as it always is. Bucky’s eyes pop open and he looks at you, his lips parted and his eyes wide and blue.

“It’s okay,” you tell him. “And I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair not to tell you. Not… not when we were supposed to have each other’s backs.”

“I’ve got your back no matter what,” Bucky declares, and the warmth in your chest coils and warms you straight down to your fingertips.

There aren’t words for what you’re feeling. All you can do is crane your neck and press a kiss to his sooty cheek and wrap your arms around his neck and kiss his cheek again.

Bucky shudders in your hold, and it’s all you can do not to cry as he wraps an arm gently around you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “And I’m not letting go.”


End file.
